It's bright. Bright was never really my
style. Whatever, I really don't care. It
was a lot rougher than I thought it was gonna be, but other
than that it was exactly like I wanted it to be. I am dead, and
my death was my life.

My name is, or was, Andrea McDirkin. I know, I know, geeky
name. I was known all my life as Andy, few people knew that my
name was really Andrea. I would have legally changed it to Andy
but I didn't really get that far. My life
wasn't really all that interesting until
the last couple of years, so that's where
I'll start.

It was about two years ago when four of my friends and I
decided to form a rock band. I don't really know why, but it
seemed like a really good idea at the time. Looking back,
though, it was pretty random and kinda stupid. I remember that
Tom played the electric guitar, Simon played the drum-set, his
brother Doug played the bass, Lori played the keyboard, and I
sang. It was pretty radical.

But then there was school. Ug, school wasn't ever my thing. It's not like
it was hard or anything, actually it was really easy.
It's just that I didn't want to have to deal with it. I was one of those
kids who always did their homework in ten minutes during the
period before it was due. And I only ever missed three or four
questions. So what was the big deal? I obviously
understood the material! You know, I bet I could've made honor-roll if I hadn't
cut classes so much. Phfft! Whatever.

But what really blew was work. A waitress at the local diner
making barley enough to fill my gas-tank. It sucked ass! I
always got stuck serving the creeps and weirdos, too. But Jack
Harvey, the owner/my boss, he was really nice. He was like the
brother I didn't hate. Whenever I needed
extra cash he would find odd-jobs for me around the kitchen and
he pretty much let me make my own schedule. But the one thing
that really made him the greatest man I'd
ever known was that whenever things got heated at home (which
was often) he let me stay with him no questions asked, wanting
nothing in return. He was a saint in an apron.

The day after the band formed I remember closing up with him.

"Uh, Mr. Harvey?" I
said, wiping off a table, "this might
sound strange but I just joined a band, and. . ."

"And you're going
to have to be spending a lot of time at practices and
gigs." he finished for me. "I understand, I was a seventeen-year-old kid not too
long ago. Do you mind working double and triple
shifts?"

"No."

"Then I don't mind
you having to reschedule."

"Awesome! Thanks a lot, Mr.
Harvey!" see what I mean about him?

We finished closing and was about to leave, but he stopped me.

"Oh, by the way Andy, for the millionth
time it's 'Jack'!"

Simon and Doug were always fighting. Doug was a year younger
than Simon, who was my age. But they looked exactly
alike, it was really weird. Simon was as little emo, though, so
it was pretty easy to tell them apart. They fought over
everything, but their arguments were more like competitions to
see which brother could outlast and out-stubborn the other. I
mean, seriously, they might as well have kept score! It was
ridiculous!

Our first band practice was pretty pointless. We hardly did
anything. We all just sat around and talked about band
names. I don't really recall who we wound
up as, but it doesn't really matter. We
also talked about what kind of sound we wanted to make and we
messed around with our interments and junk like that. The next
practice though, we really buckled down. I think it was
technically two days, but we got an entire song written. We
were all really into it and everyone had great ideas.

The third practice, though, that's what
I've been working up to. The third
practice is where my story (and my death) really begins.

Doug brought it in. He said that he'd
paid top dollar for it and that it was premium, but I
don't know. He rolled it up in a thin
piece of paper and lit it. They all took a drag and then it
came to me.

Sickly sweet smoke hung heavily in the air. I
couldn't see. The lit end glowed
brightly, staring at me like some evil eye. I wasn't afraid. I was willing. Maybe it was just that
angry glowing eye hypnotizing me. I put the paper between my
lips and sucked in like some fish gasping for poisonous air. It
was like ice-cold sweat running through my blood stream. My
body dripped with invisible acid, the drug oozing out of my
pores. I felt sick, but I didn't care. I
liked it. It was a creepy sort of happy that I felt right in
the middle of my forehead. The world was enhanced and, at the
same time, distorted. It was very deranged. I was living in an
abstract painting and what should have been fear and confusion
was joy and dizziness. All I can remember is a vibrantly
colored blur around me and inside of me.

The next day I woke up at the crack of noon and felt like
everything I had experienced last night suddenly hated me. I
had the same sick feeling, but this time I didn't like it. The creepy-happy in my forehead was
replaced by extreme pain. Seriously, kids, don't do drugs. Not only will it kill your brain cells,
but it's addictive. Very, very
addictive. . .

A few days later, we had another "practice". And then another,
and another, and yet another for about three months. Between
joints we actually did write some music, and it was
alright stuff for cannabis-educed noise. One night, we were all
sitting around tokin', and Tom had what
we considered to be a rather profound thought.

"Hey, guys," he
said, "what would be the coolest way to
die?"

"Whaddya mean?"
Lori asked.

"Like, I wanna be bumped off by the mafia
for hookin' up with the bosses daughter.
You know, something that would be impressive!"

"Well, I'm not
gonna die." Lori stated.

"How?" demanded
Doug.

"I'm just not,
that's all."

I sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

"I would like to die going down a
waterfall." I had been considering it for
a while, and that seemed like the best, most fitting answer.
They all laughed at me. "No, think about
it! That rushing sensation; it's almost
like flying, I bet. That feeling of waitlesness, just being
carried and not having to worry about getting lost or where
you're going. The water cleaning your
body and cleansing your soul. Everything just washing away, all
bad vibes being flushed out. I mean, there's not even a need to
breath! Yeah. . . falling down a waterfall. . ."

"Wow," Lori sighed,
"that sounds beautiful."

"Andy," Simon put
his hand on my shoulder, "I'll go down with you.'

I grinned at him. Then Doug started arguing with him about
something-or-other and I went home. I don't remember my dream from that night, just that it
scared the bejesus out of me!

The next morning I had to work all day.

"Hey, how's your
band coming?" Jack asked me .

"Oh, you know. We don't have that many songs yet and we're not that great."

"Well, maybe when you guys get good you
can play a gig here?"

"Yeah, sure." I
shrugged. I had the shifts from opening through to lunch. It
was very early in the morning. I took glasses and bowls out of
the dish washer and set them in the cupboard. The breakfast
crowd would be there soon demanding their eggs runny, their
bacon crispy, and their coffee black. We worked in silence for
t most part, occasionally asking the whereabouts of something,
or telling where to put something. It was kind of awkward.
Finally, Jack stopped beating around the bush.

"Andy, are you okay?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"
I knew what he meant.

"You know what I mean. You've been kind of. . . not all here lately. Like you
haven't been sleeping, or eating, or. . .

Andy, you know I've done things that
I'm not proud of. You know that I had a
drinking problem. So I know the kind of effect alcohol has. .
."

"Jack, I'm not
drinking." I reassured him. I was telling
the truth, but I wasn't being honest.

"Yeah, I know. You're way more messed up than an alcoholic. Andy,
seriously, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm
fine." I totally was not lying.
I was fine. There was no harm being done. I wasn't wasting any money on it and all we did was sit in
Toms basement when we smoked it. "I'm just kind of stressed out.
Over the band, you know?"

"Okay, if you're
sure." I knew that he lost all trust and
respect for me right then and there. We continued to open in
complete silence. Costumers came, the other waitresses showed
up, I worked until my shifts ended, and I left. I'd never been so glad to get away from Jack in my
life.

We should have taken that night as an omen. Tom was tweaked. He
flipped out, screaming that he wanted the stuff so badly that
he had to quit. That didn't make any
sense to us, but we realized that the guy yelling it
wasn't Tom. We were frightened. We moved
the band minus Tom to Simon and Dougs basement. We got high and
everything was normal minus Tom. We tried not to think about
it.

These were the occurrences of the first year of my death. Lori
had taken over electric guitar. We actually had played a few
gigs and considered ourselves to be quite popular. Especially
when we were high.

There was one night when Doug talked about getting some
syringes. I told him 'no'. 'It was too
dangerous'. 'That
was how people got AIDS'. 'I was okay with putting that stuff in my lungs but
there was no way I was going to squirt it directly into my
blood stream'. Truth be told, I just
don't like needles. I eventually talked
him out of it. I don't know for sure, but
I think he might have been shooting-up on his own. That would
make sense because, well, this is about when it happened.

We were smoking, laughing, talking to inanimate objects, you
know, the usual. Suddenly, this big guy burst through the door
and started shouting about money and we all knew that he was
Dougs drug-dealer. And I know what you're
probably thinking, but I honestly have no idea if he was black
or white, or clean or dirty. I tried to forget. I remember the
commotion. The yelling, the punching, then the blood. Lots of
blood. And screaming. And tears. Lots of tears.

We all sat there sobbing over Simons stabbed body. The
drug-dealer had fled. Doug was paralyzed with horror and
sadness, but mostly with guilt. He knew that the knife was
meant for him. His brother was protecting him. They looked
exactly alike.

Simons breathing became light and shaky. We all told him not to
do it. We told him not to leave us. His blood soaked into my
jeans as I knelt there next to him. God, he looked so frail. I
remember looking at him. I watched his face go pale. I watched
his eyes grow dim. I watched his final breath of air go passed
his dry lips. I watched him die.

Lori had dialed 911, but she couldn't do
anything but scream. I remember the sirens. And the blanket going
over Simons Stoney looking face.

Simons funeral was the most painful experience of my life. It
hurts me to think about it. Before they put his casket in the
ground, everybody put a flower on it and said a prayer for him. I
put a bright red rose on his coffin and made a promise instead of
a prayer.

My life was screwed up. I was a junky, nobody ha any respect for
me, my life wasn't going anywhere, and I
watched as my best friend was stabbed and killed because of a
drug addiction we all shared. I had messed up pretty bad. If I
could have quit, maybe the rest would fallow and we'd be on track and Simon would be alive. . .

My life was mixed up. It wasn't supposed to
be like this.

The day after the funeral I put on my blood soaked jeans. Simons
blood. I got in my car and I drove. I forget where I drove to,
all that matters is what I drove to. I stood there for a while. I
starred long and hard at the icy water. I jumped in.

It was a little bumpy and uncomfortable at first, but then I
dropped.

There was a rushing sensation; it was almost like flying. It was
a feeling of waitlesness, I was just being carried and didn't
have to worry about getting lost or where I was going. The water
cleaned my body and cleansed my soul. Everything just washed
away, all bad vibes were flushed out. There wasn't even a need to breath.